One Love
by thegoodpill
Summary: Most things Sherlock reveals are work-related. This one isn't, and it all starts when he keeps hearing this noise.


**One Love**

Sherlock is annoyed, which isn't an uncommon happening, but the reason for it is different now. He keeps hearing this high-frequency noise that's driving him crazy. Now, Sherlock isn't one to let a sound as insignificant as that get to him. Except for now. Why now, he has no idea, and that too is driving him insane. And if this noise is going to keep him from concentrating on his experiments any longer, he's going to... Well, he's not sure what he's going to do yet but it will most certainly result in either John or Mrs. Hudson yelling at him. Probably both.

Maybe he should shoot the wall again?

"I hid the gun so don't even think you'll give the wall another whooping."

Sherlock turns his gaze from his experiment (which he doesn't even know the goal of, thanks to the noise) and gives John, who's comfortably seated in his armchair and reading a book, an incredulous look. Surely he couldn't have developed a sense of deduction. What are the possibilities of him having become psychic? Close to zero.

John only goes outside to go to work, buy groceries, have a first (and only) date in his favourite restaurant or have a drink with Mike (which mostly turns into several drinks). Sometimes, though it occurs less often lately, he gets so fed up with Sherlock he leaves the flat to take a walk, but that never lasts longer than an hour. Other than that the only purpose of John going outside is when Sherlock's called for him, and knowing John is a man of routine and comfort despite his time in the army, he always takes the same route. Even when he's going somewhere he's never been before he'll grab a cab just a few steps from their front door, and if no cabs are available there he'll go to the left to search for one even though he's more likely to find a cab when going to the right. Clearly not a clever move, which once more indicates he in no way could have gone through some sort of transformation that would result in the ability to read minds.

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock responds after the train of thought, turning fully towards John. If he can no longer remember why he's executing the experiment there is no point in continuing it.

"You were thinking," John retorts easily, not taking his eyes off his book. It's rather impressive.

"Was it annoying?"

The answer is predictable but it's still slightly amusing to see the quirk of the side of John's mouth, hear him huff out a bit of laughter before he replies, confidently, "Very," and Sherlock can't stop himself from chuckling in return. It is both strange and delightful how he can joke around with someone. He's never been able to do that with anyone who didn't end up wanting to kill him.

However, it does not satisfy Sherlock's curiosity. He cannot deduce how John knew what he was thinking about without even looking at him - and he wouldn't be able to even if John _had_ been looking - and it leaves him... irritated. Even more than he already is, due to the high-pitched noise that's just gotten a bit louder. Only a bit, but Sherlock's noticed. Of course.

Sherlock gets up, rolls down his sleeves and buttons up the cuffs again, and proceeds to the living room. With some luck Mrs. Hudson will clean what he's left behind in the kitchen, though it doesn't matter; if a new experiment comes to his mind he'll clear the table within seconds to start working on it before he's forgotten the reason of starting it. He glances behind him at the failed one with a displeased look on his face, which he turns into a perfect mask of no emotion the moment he gets into John's view.

He settles himself in the sofa, putting its entire length to use and groaning as he stretches out, attempts to catch John's attention. He's not too surprised when he gets no response, not even a look, though he is a bit unhappy. He won't degrade himself to being blatantly obvious about wanting to make John look at him so he closes his eyes and focuses on emptying his brain until he's going to speak up. He only needs a few seconds for the dramatic effect - the confusing effect as well, probably - and he'd be able to enjoy it more if it weren't for that _noise_.

Easy to ignore.

(No it's not.)

"How did you know?"

"Hm?"

Disinterested grunt.

Sherlock struggles to keep himself from clicking his tongue but can't stop his eyebrows from pulling together, even if just for a fraction. John is clearly not looking at him, nor does he seem keen to do so any time soon, so Sherlock can have any expression on his face. John won't know anyway. Because he doesn't _care_.

Sherlock's frown deepens.

"How did you know I was thinking of shooting the wall?"

John doesn't respond. Maybe caught up in the book, more likely just ignoring Sherlock. Predictable. He's done it tons of times before. It never fails to annoy Sherlock, which in its turn never fails to amuse John, and that only annoys Sherlock even further. Sherlock guesses an ordinary man like John has to get his daily pleasures out of childish teasings like these, or maybe he's used to them from the years he spent with his sister; she might've been irritating to John as well and so he learned how to successfully get rid of her by ignoring her. Or another family member has been the reason for him to learn it, be cruel to the ones who carry practically the same blood, and now he's just using it on Sherlock because he knows the result.

Or maybe he's actually interested in his book.

Not likely. The only reason John even picks up a book is to either keep himself busy until something interesting comes along (most of the time that's Sherlock) or to distract himself from all the 'feelings' he's so careful about not shoving right up Sherlock's face (which mostly happens anyway, because apparently Sherlock is 'a champ' at provoking people).

Sherlock doesn't repeat his question. He hates repeating himself and it is already quite amazing he's done so already without even sighing. He turns his back to John to make clear he doesn't expect an answer anymore, and even though it means John's won this round it by far does not mean he's won the war.

Not that they're fighting or anything, but no matter if you're Sherlock's friend or foe, you'll always be at war with him. It's more fun that way. 

The good thing is the noise is only audible in the flat, which is great considering none of the murders or mysterious disappearances take place there. The bad thing is that currently there are no murders or mysterious disappearances, or at least none the police can't solve themselves - or so Lestrade says. Sherlock's tried to contact him on numerous occasions, but after the seventy-third call of the day Lestrade called John and John ended up taking Sherlock's phone. And managed to hide pretty much every other phone Sherlock could get his hands on. Even Mrs. Hudson's.

That leaves Sherlock restless. Not only is he desperate for another case, he's also desperate for a moment of peace and quiet, for God's sake. He hasn't been able to hear himself think since last Sunday, which means he's been putting up with this sound for three full days already. At first he thought it had something to do with the rowdy bar he'd been at before, to investigate one of the suspects of a previous case who liked to have a pint in the loudest pub Sherlock's ever been to. He's never had an interest in rock music and after that night he had deleted everything he'd ever known about the genre.

But, as it is proven now, the high-frequency noise has nothing to do with the bar. It would've disappeared by Monday morning and now it's Wednesday. It also would've explained why only Sherlock could hear it, since he didn't take John along to the pub and so he's not aware of its existence, but that theory's also washed down the drain. Sherlock's tried to get Mrs. Hudson upstairs but she's either not around or claiming she's too busy and has, by the way, already visited John a good ten minutes ago. Apparently Sherlock himself is not worthy a second visit, and that's just downright insulting. (Though, admittedly, understanding.)

He could go outside, of course, except it's not such a logical thing for Sherlock to do. There's nothing out there that might even remotely interest him, and it's not like it's any more silent in the busy streets of London than it is in his comfortable flat. (Besides, he's not going to let this sound win. As a human he cannot lose against something as stupid as a noise, even if it's getting him on the edge and turning him into the sort of man he never wanted to be - a slob. He's starting to forget to shave, and if that's not a bad sign then Sherlock doesn't know what is.)

And as if that isn't enough, John actually seems to find it _amusing_.

Oh, what fun it must be, seeing the great Sherlock Holmes breaking down. Oh, how joyful, it's even better than Christmas, better than birthdays, better than Valentine's Day when John's actually managed to keep a girlfriend for once.

Sherlock is slowly starting to realize he is not okay. But there is no way he'll admit that to John, not even if his life depended on it.

(Well, okay, maybe _then_ he would admit it, but that's not about to happen anyway so Sherlock can say - or think, technically - whatever he wants.

Oh God, he's really not okay.) 

"You all right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ceases moving his leg up and down rhythmically to give John a glare, one he's only given him once before when he was being particularly annoying - the one that resembles the glare he grants Anderson with every time they meet.

"If you have a joke to crack please go ahead and get it over with. I'm not in the mood for kidding around."

"No, seriously," John says, and he does look like he's genuinely concerned but he's proven more than once his acting isn't completely rubbish. "Are you all right? I know I'm always teasing-"

Sherlock scoffs. His grip on the sofa's armrest and his thigh tightens.

"_Sherlock_." Hm, he's using the serious voice now. He might actually mean it this time. "What's going on? Is this about that noise you keep hearing?"

"That noise," Sherlock repeats with a mumble, eyes narrowing in the slightest. "That never-ending noise. It's driving me insane. I can feel it. My brain's breaking down the longer I'm exposed to it."

John's frowning at him, not because he's angry but worried. He should get into his doctor mode in three, two, one-

"What's it like, the noise?" John asks as he takes a seat beside Sherlock. He grabs Sherlock's chin between his thumb and index finger to turn his face towards him, gives it a quick check before he focuses on the eyes. Sherlock lets him check his pupils-

"I'm not on drugs."

-and lets him check his temples. Sherlock grits his teeth at the splitting headache the pressing down of John's fingers give him, which disappears the moment the fingers do. John moves a bit away from him with a worried look on his face and Sherlock resist the urge to roll his eyes. His attention is drawn from his flatmate to the noise when said noise increases, and Sherlock studies every little bit of John's features to see if John is hearing anything, anything at all.

John frowns at him. "Sherlo-"

"Can't you hear it?" Sherlock asks, annoyed, infuriated, agitated, immensely irritated. "How come you can't hear it? It's so loud, so audible even you can't miss it."

John stills and narrows his eyes, seems to be trying hard to hear what Sherlock is apparently hearing. His pupils stay slightly dilated, which indicates there's no surprise on his side, so he's clearly not perceiving it, but _why_, and how come Sherlock _is_? It's true that his hearing senses are better than John's, like all of his other senses, but Sherlock knows when something can be heard by the common man as well, and now is such a case, yet John does not take note of it, not even a bit, so _why_-

"I don't hear anything," John says, unnecessarily so, and peers at Sherlock. "Are you sure you're not just-"

"I'm not," Sherlock is quick to answer, because he knows the difference between imagination, hallucination and reality, and it's definitely the latter. He's had his fair share of drugs, which he'd like to remind John of.

"You haven't been on a case for a few days, you know how that winds you up."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and lets out an annoyed sigh. "This has nothing to do with the lack of cases, I've been hearing it the morning after I went to the pub to investigate. You wrote up a fancy story about it on your blog, remember? The 'Diamond Dog', if I'm correct? Hm?"

Sherlock knows John's thinking of the rowdy pub being related to the noise Sherlock's hearing, but as he's a doctor - a very good one, as he's told him a long time ago - he is quick to figure out they have nothing to do with each other. It worries him more, which gets on Sherlock's nerves because worrying won't help him get rid of the noise.

"What's it like?" John asks again, in the end. Back to the beginning. Sherlock might as well answer to get it over with.

"It's a high-frequency noise," Sherlock says, voice low. "It's constantly there; when I try to focus on my experiments, when I try to play the violin, when you're watching telly, at day, at night - _constantly_."

"And it's putting you off," John adds knowingly. Sherlock isn't surprised since he's been hearing jokes about it every once in a while. "You forget to shave, you forget to shower and you eat like a pig."

Sherlock manages a small smile at the image of his brother. It does not go unnoticed by John, who smiles back and looks like he's thinking of the exact same thing, but then goes all serious again and gives Sherlock an intense look. A doctor look.

"And I can't hear it," John states. He pauses. Sherlock can nearly hear his brain creak from all the thinking he's doing. "Can only you hear it?"

"I've tried to get Mrs. Hudson up but she never works with me."

"She didn't say anything about a noise when she was here."

"Maybe she hasn't been here long enough to actually hear it."

"Maybe it's all in your head." Sherlock glares at John. "Maybe it's not."

"Definitely not."

"Definitely not," John repeats with a nod. Sherlock seriously hopes he won't have to hear that again. John should know better.

Neither of them speaks. Sherlock tries not to rip the sofa apart as the noise gets away with his attention again, as if it's a child waiting for his parent to notice him already by doing the loudest, most obnoxious things. Only this is more infuriating, since he can't locate the noise and get it to stop. It'd be easier with a child.

Sherlock moves his eyes to John when he notices a change in attitude. John looks at him with a bit of a startled look on his face, indicating he's been thinking of something moderately private, something he probably doesn't want Sherlock to know. Sherlock briefly entertains the thought of prying it out of John, how pleasurable and distracting it could be, but doesn't get much further than thinking about it when suddenly he hears the front door downstairs open.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson yells, sounding borderline giddy - she must've gotten free waffles again from Thomas Grint, the middle-aged man who tries to get more customers by giving away food. "Guess what I've got!"

Sherlock only perks up because he hears her coming up the stairs. This is a good time, a good moment to pass by, the noise is loud enough, annoying enough for her to notice, and when she does Sherlock can at least be assured he's not going insane. It's also a good thing John is present, so he can hear first hand that his flatmate isn't turning into a mad man. It'd make an interesting blog entry, though.

Sherlock gets up from his seat and opens the door to his flat, willing Mrs. Hudson to get up there faster so he can finally get a step closer to solving the ever so annoying mystery. It's peculiar how her bad hip takes a day off when she's got a surprise for her tenants.

When she finally comes into view, Sherlock doesn't even have to look at the plastic bag with the logo printed on it to know he's right. Waffles indeed. They smell nice, as far as waffles can. If he remembers correctly - which he does - he's never eaten a bad waffle before. Maybe because he rarely eats them anyway, but that's past the point; the point is that he can't imagine a waffle being bad, can't understand how someone can screw up such a simple thing, but then he remembers he can't cook himself. Not really, anyway.

And it's when he catches himself thinking about cooking that he knows this must stop. This _madness_. It's excruciating, like Mrs. Hudson's hip and John's psychosomatic limp, and he needs to finally clear his head.

"Was Mr. Grint generous again?" Sherlock asks when Mrs. Hudson has finally climbed all the stairs, and the smile she shoots him is enough of an answer.

"Very generous this time," she says, letting John take the bag from her and put it on the table in the living room. "He's such a nice man."

Sherlock refrains to comment on it in favour of letting Mrs. Hudson hear what he can hear. He watches her curiously, expectantly, as she takes off her coat and walks to the kitchen to hang it over one of the chairs - the look she takes at the mess on the table is long past familiar, and Sherlock is sure John too knows her fingers are itching to clean. But that's not why she's here.

"You want some tea?" John asks as he passes her, subtly turning her upper body a bit so she's facing the living room and not the dirty kitchen.

"I'd love some, thank you," she says gratefully, and makes her way to the sofa, where she takes a seat in the middle. Sherlock doesn't sit down, not yet, if he will at all, and it doesn't take long for Mrs. Hudson to notice. As oblivious as always she just smiles some more at him, and gently, pats the free spot next to her.

Sherlock doesn't move.

"You're not sitting down, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asks with a high-pitched laugh, which promptly reminds him of that noise again and gets him on the edge right away.

"No, I'm rather fine over here, thank you."

In the doorway. Letting the cold air come in and ruin the warmth John's desperately been trying to keep inside.

Mrs. Hudson just laughs some more. "You're acting strange lately."

"Not stranger than usual," Sherlock says as he raises his gaze to the ceiling, scans it to try and figure out where the sound is coming from even though he's tried to do so many times before - and failed, every time.

"Not sure about that," Mrs. Hudson says, a bit jokingly. She gains Sherlock's eyes on her once more. "Have you been working on a strange case lately? Or is it all hush-hush?"

Sherlock takes a moment to think over his next words. He can lie, though that would have no use, especially not with John in the next room. He can tell the truth and possibly annoy John by trying to include their landlady with his problem, but if it might be the key to solving it all then it doesn't matter.

"No, no case," Sherlock answers, attempting to come off as slightly casual. "Just been hearing this noise for a while now. It's quite annoying."

"You mean the beeping?"

Sherlock intensifies his gaze on her and that's the moment John chooses to come back with two cups of tea.

"Here you go," he says as he puts one cup down in front of Mrs. Hudson, the other next to it and probably for him. He turns to Sherlock. "You want some as well?"

"You hear it too?" Sherlock asks Mrs. Hudson, not removing his eyes from her. She looks up from her cup, already lost on the subject until she's repeated his sentence in her head a couple of times. Humans. Sherlock doesn't know why they're considered smart.

"The beeping noise?" Mrs. Hudson asks. "Of course I hear it. You can't miss it, can you? Doesn't it get on your nerves?"

"Very much so." Sherlock turns to John, who frowns a bit at him. "Told you I'm not imagining it. Now the question is: Why can't _you_ hear it?"

The real question is where it comes from and how it can be stopped, but if Sherlock can't find the source then no one else will so he'll have to keep himself occupied with something to take his mind off it, before he does something 'inappropriate' like shooting the wall or setting the curtains on fire. That something is the other mystery, the one about his flatmate.

"It can't be because of the war, otherwise I would've discovered it already, so there's something else, another thing you did which brought you into contact with loud noises, so loud you don't even notice the high-frequency sound ringing through our flat. But what? _What_?"

It would be too easy to just ask John, and by the looks of it he's not going to tell anyway. He might not even know what's the cause of it, which is more likely, and that makes it more fun for Sherlock to figure out. He wonders how long this will keep him busy - hopefully until he's got another case and get out of the flat at the very least.

"Should I come back later?" Mrs. Hudson asks kindly, if not a bit awkwardly, and Sherlock doesn't hesitate to tell her she should. John's not too happy with his instant reaction, but then again John doesn't approve of much Sherlock does. 

"What the bloody hell is all this?"

It's the first sound Sherlock registers, allows to get through to him, and it causes him to turn away from the wall and look at John. There's a plastic bag filled with groceries lying next to both of John's feet, revealing what they (or John, most likely) will have for dinner. Sherlock's mildly surprised by the paprika but doesn't mention it, has no time to mention it.

"Sherlock," John starts once he's taken a look at all the walls, which are covered in notes that have a profession written on them. "What's this all about? Did you get a new case?"

Sherlock sometimes really wonders how John's mind works, how it brings him the wrong conclusions time and time again. He doesn't mention that either and turns back to the few notes he's been staring at for the past few moments.

Though considering it's getting dark outside he's probably been looking at them the past few _hours_.

"Obviously not," he answers, "Unless you consider your mysterious situation a case."

"My mysterious- My _what_? Oh God," John sighs after a pause, "You're not actually going to try and figure out why I can't hear that noise, are you?"

"I'm not going to try, I'm simply going to."

"Sherlock, really, I'd rather you don't-"

"This isn't up to you; even if you forbid me to investigate I still will."

Sherlock only gets the meaning of John's protest a moment later - he's getting slow, it's annoying - and with a look of surprise on his face does he turn to John again, who still hasn't moved from his spot and is now giving him a semi-worried look. Interesting.

"You don't _want_ me to find out," Sherlock states, not asks - of course not; Sherlock knows, he doesn't question. "You're scared." John looks uncomfortable for a split second. Wrong. "You're embarrassed."

Correct. Everything in the way John's body tenses up screams how right Sherlock is, and the mere body language has excluded tons of professions Sherlock's written down and plastered against the walls. Sherlock already knows that for John's hearing to be damaged like that he must've had a different job before the army, or maybe a hobby he was particularly passionate about. Either way, lots of them are scrapped now and Sherlock feels the excitement bubbling in his veins, like it always does when he comes close to solving a case. This might not be as thrilling, but as John's still hidden the phones and Lestrade gave him a restraining order, Sherlock has to work with what he's got.

It's been a while since John's had a mysterious side to him - Sherlock thought he'd revealed them all already - and since this seems to embarrass John the entire thing's just gotten better.

"Sherlock, don't," John warns him, giving him a stern look that can't even begin to impress Sherlock. "I know you think this is fun, but I really don't want you to know."

"Clearly," Sherlock says, giving John a quick look-over to make sure he's not missing any signs that may hand him the solution. He'd be a bit disappointed if it'd turn out to be so easy, though.

"I'm serious," John says, his hands clinging together. "Some things about me are private, and I want them to stay that way."

"Why?"

"Because it's none of your business!"

"And embarrassing."

"Fine," John snaps, "That too." He takes a breath, wills himself to calm down. "Just don't... don't do it, all right? I'm _asking_ you not to. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock can't resist a smile. "It's not a matter of whether I can, but whether I will."

John doesn't need longer than two seconds to come to the right conclusion. He's proven himself to be much brighter on the subject of Sherlock than any other so far, or at least any other subject Sherlock cares about.

"I am seriously going to punch you if you do it," John says, _assures_.

Sherlock smiles in return. 

It takes him two days, twenty hours, forty-one minutes and approximately twelve seconds to figure it out. Those two days, twenty hours, forty-one minutes and approximately twelve seconds have been the most peaceful days, hours, minutes and seconds Sherlock's had in a while. He doesn't give his all, knows it'd be solved too quickly then, but he gives enough effort to get his brain to stop focusing on the sound.

Sherlock made a stack of all the remaining notes he'd plastered on the wall - pulling them and all the others off hadn't been particularly fun and he was certain Mrs. Hudson would complain about it - and studied every word on it for about ten minutes before moving on to the next. He had 57 notes that contained the possible solution, which meant the first nine and a half hours of the investigation were spent on sitting or lying in the sofa and reading everything, calling up every piece of information he had about each particular word from his mind palace, and labelling it as either useful or not.

After that it went fairly quick. Sherlock's too irritated by the noise he is once again drawn to to narrate the past events in his head, he's only telling it to himself anyway, and aside from that John will be home soon.

Sherlock knows, has always known, that whatever it was John had done before his time spent in the army, since it embarrassed him, had been something in the entertainment industry. Maybe briefly, two years at most, but John had been active. Very active.

The tricky (and therefore interesting) part was when Sherlock couldn't find proof of it. He spent a day on that, and the last 12 seconds were spent on thinking of subtle ways to make John clear he knew. John won't be happy, that's certain, will probably punch Sherlock like he promised him to, but afterwards he'll be okay with it. He has to be, anyway. And it isn't as if Sherlock is going to tell anyone - except for Mrs. Hudson and Molly perhaps - so John shouldn't worry about that.

"Sherlock!"

Ah. The curtain rises.

"Sherlock," John calls as he starts to make his way up the stairs. "You won't _believe_ who's in the paper!"

John sounds amused. A bit excited as well, which comes forth from the amusement, and it makes Sherlock curious. He's careful not to show any emotion on his face when John comes bursting through the door with the Daily Mail in his hand, and Sherlock nearly loses all interest at once.

"Who?" Sherlock asks because he knows John likes not to be the only one talking. "Some celebrity I don't know the existence of?"

It's a good guess, he finds, but not the right one. It's not too surprising, since John knows by now how little famous people Sherlock has cared to memorize, and Sherlock regains some of his interest when John drops the paper in his lap. Sherlock's moved the notes into his room to not make John suspicious and has deliberately slumped down in the sofa to give off the impression he hasn't been doing anything active so far. Which is entirely untrue, of course; Sherlock's brain has been working moderately hard.

His brain stops entirely the moment he reads the words on the front page of the paper.

**Scotland Yard Forensic Team Leader Anderson  
>Saves The Day <strong>

"What the hell?" Sherlock mutters at the mere title of the article, and just to make sure these journalists are praising the same idiotic Anderson who wouldn't even find the Eiffel Tower in Paris, he searches for a photograph. And true enough, it is the same Anderson Sherlock has in mind. Smiling like the primate he is.

"Apparently he used some 'special technique' to locate a missing girl," John explains. He clearly has to keep himself from laughing.

"So he just got lucky," Sherlock states.

"Yeah," John answers, "And now the Daily Mail is turning him into a hero."

It remains silent for a good three seconds before John loses the battle with himself and bursts out, barking out laughter nearly viciously so too close to Sherlock, who throws the paper onto the floor. Now the high-frequency sound isn't the only thing that's putting him off.

"Honestly," John says through his laughter as he goes to pick up the paper, not bothered by Sherlock's reaction. "Are these people idiots? Even _I_ know Anderson isn't smart enough to use some sort of technique to find a missing person."

"That's because you've heard him say more than two sentences," Sherlock replies, closing his eyes and trying to delete Anderson's photograph from his mind.

John responds with more laughter, and for a few moments it manages to overrule the noise and relax Sherlock. Sadly enough John is a man with decency, and so he soon wills himself to stop laughing at someone else's expense (even though that someone else isn't near him whatsoever), bringing back the deadly silence.

Sometimes it really is too bad John isn't different, even if just a bit. No matter that without his moral sense Sherlock wouldn't be able to communicate with people the way he can now, and while he doesn't care much about other people he still knows it's useful not to make an enemy out of everyone. (That's why he's close to liking Lestrade; Sherlock can insult him every time they meet and Lestrade will still call him up for assistance on the next case.)

"Well," John eventually says with a sigh, rolling up the paper and heading towards the kitchen. He doesn't say anything else.

Sherlock hears him throw the paper into the bin, as well as he hears him sigh at the mess on the table - Mrs. Hudson hasn't cleared it, then - and then the familiar sounds of tea-making begin.

Unlike usual Sherlock doesn't call for a cup of his own; instead he opens his eyes and gets up from the sofa, then makes his way to the kitchen with the best casual walk he can manage. When he leans against the doorframe he sees John washing his hands as he waits for the water to boil, giving Sherlock a view of his profile.

Sherlock has wondered quite often lately if the two of them are somehow related since their noses both turn upwards a bit at the tip. It's one of those useless thoughts that come from the irritation due to the noise that won't go away, and Sherlock is ashamed to have even considered him and John to be family. He refuses to see himself connected with someone who is far less intelligent than him, but then again Sherlock's parents weren't the smartest people either. Just a brain surgeon and a bio-engineer.

Sherlock's youth had been boring, mostly.

But he's not bored now, not in the least. His life may not be in danger, but there is something thrilling about subtly telling John he's figured it out. John's reactions, even after all the time they've known each other, never fail to both amuse and surprise Sherlock. Somehow he thought John would get the hang of the way things went, the way Sherlock's mind worked and Sherlock was sure John would grow bored of it, would stop praising him or stop being surprised. But he's always astonished, utterly astonished when Sherlock whips out another deduction or shares information with him Sherlock thought he already knew.

It's fun, having someone like John by his side.

"I bet he'll be getting some fans, then," Sherlock says at last, causing John to jump and bump his hand against the tap.

"Jesus," John curses, though whether it's at Sherlock or his hand is unclear. "Don't scare me like that."

Sherlock remains silent as John turns off the tap and tries to soothe the temporary pain in his hand by rubbing it with his other. The red spot that's starting to appear will only remain for a good ten minutes, maybe more, but John will continue to check for about half an hour. Typical.

"Fans," John then repeats, catching up with the conversation. "Why would he get fans?"

"Isn't that what all heroes get? Girls shouting and screaming and cheering?"

John ponders on it for a bit. A grin breaks out on his face soon, and Sherlock has the sentence he's about to say in his mind a mere second before he speaks up.

"They must be blind then, though."

Sherlock huffs out a bit of laughter and allows the corner of his mouth to quirk up. "Deaf as well, I presume."

John giggles. "He does have a bit of an annoying voice." Sherlock looks at him. "Okay, a _very_ annoying voice," John admits through his giggles. "Especially when he's talking to you."

Sherlock frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Like you don't know."

John's right. Of course he is, because of course Sherlock knows. He knows everything. And when he doesn't, he makes people believe he does anyway. But this he truly does know, because Anderson's behaviour towards him isn't that hard to figure out, and so neither is the annoying tone his voice gets when he's talking to him. Sherlock has noted a long time ago how his own voice drops a few notches when he's communicating with Anderson, which he mostly does through insults that secretly absolutely delight him. Anderson's such an easy target.

"Do you wonder if we have any?" Sherlock then asks, curious. It's John's turn to frown. "Fans," Sherlock explains, trying to hide his impatience.

John doesn't need long to answer that one. "God I hope not. If they spotted us you'd run off and leave me to deal with them."

"I doubt I'd be gone before you. You strike me as more experienced."

Sherlock is thrilled to see how the amusement on John's face freezes before realization starts to settle in, and then there's the cock of his head to the left when he's not sure how to react to something. Sherlock has to struggle to keep a straight face.

"What do you mean?" John asks in the end, predictably, and though Sherlock's intention was to play around a bit he finds himself too eager to get to the point to do so.

"Like you don't know."

John's stopped rubbing the red spot on his hand. He's standing completely still and watches Sherlock in silence. The kettle's boiled and is starting to demand attention, yet it gets none. Sherlock is too busy enjoying the game to do anything about it, and since it also blocks out the high-frequency noise there is definitely no way he's going to make an effort.

"Sherlock," John starts, then clears his throat. His eyes find the floor for a moment before they settle on Sherlock again. "Sherlock, did you..."

Sherlock raises his chin, dares John to finish that sentence. John's starting to flush almost subtly, which Sherlock only notices because he's looking for it.

"You figured it out, didn't you," John states, clever enough not to ask. Sherlock neither confirms nor denies it, though they both know what his silence means.

John just keeps on looking for a bit until he's found the ability to move, and when he can he does, and when he does he takes the few steps needed to get to Sherlock and, true to his word, punches him.

Surprisingly enough it's not in the face but the stomach, and it hurts more than Sherlock thought it would.

He skips the tea. 

It's awfully predictable when, the next morning, John doesn't greet Sherlock when he enters the living room. He also doesn't make him tea, not even when Sherlock asks him to (though he isn't sure, "I'd like some tea as well, thanks," is a question), and that is also predictable. It's childish as well, and that's what irritates Sherlock. He hates it when people act like kids, even when kids do it, because they should know better than that and just say and do whatever they want to do. It's what Sherlock does, and it's worked fine for him so far.

(He ignores the voice in the back of his head that begs to differ.)

Sherlock decides to respect John's choice of behaviour for the time being. If he wants to ignore everything Sherlock says, fine. It's not as if Sherlock hasn't done that before himself - and he never had a decent reason to do so - so Sherlock presumes he can, for once, cut John some slack.

For about an hour or two.

With John having a day off and refusing to go out whatsoever - not even to buy the much needed groceries - Sherlock has no choice but to ask him for things he needs. Such as the remote, which lies next to John's foot, or a pen, one which can be found on the desk near John, Sherlock is sure, and pretty much every other thing he might need for whatever reason.

John doesn't even grant him a look whenever Sherlock asks for his help. Sherlock knows John thinks he should just get up and get what he needs himself, but with John near and Mrs. Hudson gone, it's perfectly reasonable to let John be of any use to him. Except now John isn't co-operating - which isn't the first time, though this is the most least co-operating he's been ever since they started living together - and Sherlock is getting impatient.

If he has no case to focus on and only that never-ending noise ringing in his ears, Sherlock needs a distraction. The drugs have been cut off for a while now, also thanks to John, and Sherlock's secretly smoked his entire secret stash a couple of days ago when he was gone to 'take a stroll'. John let him go without a second thought. What an idiot.

Sherlock sighs, frustrated. "John," he snaps, and John doesn't flinch at the tone he uses, just reads his book. "John," Sherlock repeats angrily, gaining no reaction at all. "John!"

John turns a page. Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns his back towards the man, refusing to watch him pretending to read something he's not even interested in. John's leg hasn't stopped moving ever since he opened the book which can only indicate he doesn't find the material particularly fascinating, which isn't a surprise considering it's one of those novels Mrs. Hudson gave him.

Sherlock tries to remember what programs he's missing on the telly. He's done some research just in case John needs to think he's actually interested in watching TV, so he knows which least annoying programs are on at what day and time, but he can't recall it now. That sound is cutting through his thoughts, his brain, is messing him up like it's been doing all the time. Since the two day break thanks to John's interesting case, the noise seems to have an even bigger effect on him now.

Oh God, he needs to take his mind off it, even if it's with a stupid show.

Sherlock is sitting up and facing John within a second.

"John," he starts, "I understand you're angry, though I actually don't since there's nothing to be ashamed about, but you have got to get over it and hand me the remote."

John scoffs. It's the first reaction he's given all day. He turns another page. John doesn't read that quickly, not even Sherlock does, so this is the second indication John isn't interested in the book.

"My brain is about to _explode_, John," Sherlock tries, and adds some desperation to his voice that only seems to amuse John. "If you don't hand me the remote I'm going to tell everyone you know about your profession before the army."

John stills at that. It surprises Sherlock it actually worked, it was a shot in the dark, but he's pleased. Now John will finally give him what he wants.

John throws the book at him. It's not what Sherlock wants.

"You're a real prick, you know that?" John tells him as he gets up from his armchair and bends down to grab the remote, which he throws at Sherlock as well. He doesn't wait for an answer and exits the living room, grabs his coat and runs down the stairs.

Sherlock doesn't move until he hears the door shut almost violently, and then he lies down on the sofa again and turns on the TV. 

Sherlock isn't sure whether this is going to work. If not, Mrs. Hudson owes him. Again.

John is watching telly with her in 221B, and Mrs. Hudson is making sure the volume isn't turned up too much. Sherlock doesn't know what John will think of this, but there is no turning back. Well, there is, there always is when you're Sherlock Holmes, but now, for once, there isn't. Or rather, Sherlock forces himself to think there isn't. He's put effort into this, so he's going to execute it.

He closes his eyes and takes a breath. He'll have to force his voice a bit to overcome the street noises, but he'll manage. He has to.

Go.

"One looks for happiness," Louder. "One longs to find a partner." Louder. "One knows that nowadays, one love will be the answer." Ignore passers-by. "One sees a crazy world. One needs a fresh perspective."

Finally, he can see movement. It's John, unless Mrs. Hudson has grown taller and gained weight, and is fond of jumpers.

"One comes to realize, one love's a true objective."

A bit louder and John will perfectly understand what exactly it is he's singing when he opens the window. It takes John a few seconds to move and do so - he seems surprised - and when the window opens Sherlock has gone to the next strophe.

"One seeks a perfect love. One learns to tell the difference," John's eyes widen even more than they already have. He recognizes the song. "One finds in consequence, one love is all that makes sense."

The passers-by are turning into an audience. While they do seem to realize this isn't meant for their ears, as Sherlock isn't facing them but a building, more and more people slow down to eventually stop and watch the spectacle. Sherlock shouldn't have done this on a Saturday evening. Too late now.

"One hopes there'll be a way-"

John pulls away from the window. Mrs. Hudson looks behind her for a moment, and by the thumbs up Sherlock knows he's coming down. He has to keep singing. He thinks he's doing a rather good job at not sounding like a drowning cat.

"One peers into the distance. One thinks that come what may-"

The front door flies open, startling some of the audience members and causing their mumbling to increase. Sherlock tries to focus one half of his mind on singing the right lyrics, the other half on John, who looks at him as if he's seen an alien (which may as well be the case), but doesn't look like he's about to punch him again. That's a start.

"One love may be the best chance."

John starts walking up to him, slowly. Carefully, as if he's afraid Sherlock will stop if he comes closer.

"One love," Sherlock continues, growing a bit nervous for some reason. "And only one."

A few people go 'aww' behind his back, others continue the mumbling. Some are completely silent, awaiting to see how this all ends. John is a part of the last group. He stops when he's only a few feet away from Sherlock.

"One love to last forever. One love," John smiles. Good sign. "Only one love. One love, it's now or never."

There are a few moments of silence, the crowd not yet realizing it is the end, but when they do they give Sherlock a mildly enthusiastic applause. Most people still don't move. Sherlock refuses to acknowledge them, only looks at John and tries to decide if he'll get hit after all. It doesn't look like it, but John's surprised him before.

John surprises him now as well, though not with a punch, but by shooting every person surrounding them a look and actually managing to get them to leave. It happens slowly but certainly, and while some people seem to want to linger and watch the end, the expression on John's face - one Sherlock has trouble to identify - causes them to walk away.

It's exactly four minutes and twenty-six seconds later that the two of them only have each other left to face. Somehow, Sherlock is relieved.

John's eyes find him again and the serious look on his face makes way for another smile. John chuckles softly and starts shaking his head, lightly, and runs a hand through his hair.

"You are unbelievable," John tells Sherlock. It's a bit confusing. Sherlock doesn't know what to make of it. Maybe it means he's forgiven for finding out John's previous singing career, or maybe it means their friendship will end soon. Sherlock realizes he doesn't want that to happen.

"I love you."

It's now Sherlock's turn to look at John with wide eyes. There are very few times he's caught of guard, but a confession of the sort is certainly unexpected. John has stopped laughing, yet his smile has remained, and he looks happy. Happy with... Sherlock, presumably, if the confession is anything to go by.

"Let's go inside, it's freezing," Sherlock says, taking a few steps forward to John, whose pupils dilate in the slightest at Sherlock's proximity.

Sherlock takes him by the wrist and drags him back into the flat, resting his fingers on John's pulse to find out it's elevated.

It turns out that the chemistry of love is indeed incredibly simple. But figuring out the next thing to do, Sherlock finds, is not.


End file.
